


Brothers keeper.

by Strangecat_Ramsey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Coercion, Dark!Lestrade, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangecat_Ramsey/pseuds/Strangecat_Ramsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Kink Meme Prompt:</p>
<p>We all know Mycroft loves to kidnap people, trying to make them spy on his little brother by paying them. I want Lestrade or John (don't care which one) to accept but instead of taking the money they want Mycroft to repay them with sexual favours. How far is Mycroft willing to go just to keep an eye on his little brother?</p>
<p>Dark!Lestrade/John encouraged but not neccessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brothers Keeper 1.

**Author's Note:**

> this chapter is unedited.  
> Also please be warned that this is fairly dark. Could be construed as non-consensual exhibitionism,spanking,bondage. Its dubious consent because Mycroft is giving himself over to help his brother, but isn't very happy with whats been done to him. He's self sacrificing. Willingly accepting it because he has no choice if he wants to protect his brother.

**Chapter 1**

It had been at his favourite meeting place. Of course it wasn’t a good idea to ever have habits or preferred meeting placed. A man in his position could never have habits. But he could quite comfortably pretend to have them. He was a man of many different perceptions. He may have been at the Diogenes club as regularly as clockwork, but that didn’t mean he would use the same route or driver, or even the entrance. He may have gone home directly after the Diogenes club. But which home would that be exactly? Would he visit his brother first? It had hardly mattered about meeting places of course.

His first meeting with regards to his brother was in his brothers teachers classroom. His last meeting had been at 221b Baker Street with Mrs.Hudson with regards to his brother’s drug habits. Bribery had never been an option with Mrs.Hudson annoyingly enough. She had seen to both he and Sherlock in their day, and he was glad to see that their old nanny (the only real mother either of them had ever really had) had continued seeing to Sherlock even if he had moved into her domain. Mr.Hudson had long ago run off to the America’s with a younger woman. She would claim that having the company would be good for her. She had always been so understanding, and even if she lacked the ability to be discrete she had always known when to keep her mouth shut.

No this was with regards to something entirely different. Sherlock had gone and annoyed the Met again. Never a good idea when you were a junky really. Sherlock couldn’t do prison time. Nothing to do with the family name of course. But his brother did have an extremely annoying habit of not knowing when to keep his mouth shut, not to mention the fact that he was a fairly; Attractive young man. No, prison was never an option where Sherlock was concerned. 

The crux of the matter wasn’t that he had gotten himself arrested. Not only had he gone and barged in on a crime scene, tampered with evidence and was just in general very rude to the wonderful men and woman in blue. But that a Detective Inspector had, had the balls to actually listen to him, and not only that, had him participate in the full investigations before somehow losing the paper work to Sherlock’s arrest. Out of his own incentive.

He had watched D.I. Lestrade very carefully after that of course. Owing a favour was a dangerous thing and he couldn’t have his brother at the mercy of someone that could ruin him in any and every way. Whether by arrest or by some other unpleasant means. But it seemed that there was no ulterior motive, and what was more he was insisting that Sherlock get off the drugs. It was his duty as a concerned brother to meet this man and he of course had made that happen. 

The old abandoned warehouse was actually owned by himself. Right along the riverside it did have an unfortunate mouldy smell but that was easily looked passed by its location. Well away from things like CCTV camera’s and in fact his own home. Safe and well monitored by himself of course and large. With a nice selection of rafters for his snipers to hide in whenever the time called. And it had on several occasions called.

He’d sent Not-Anthea with a car just before Lestrade was due to leave work. True he wouldn’t be in the best of moods, but getting him tired after a hard days work trying to deal with his brother would gage his real personality quite nicely. He received several messages from Anthea as he sat in the slightly uncomfortable chair that he reserved for guests when they did visit, his legs crossed.

Anthea’s messages all pertained to her observations about the Detective Inspector. ( He had personally trained her after all) How he looked tired, looked like he’d been fighting with his wife again. Separated again. Worried about his Children. Glad to have a reason not to go home right now. 

Things he could use of course but he would have read that off him the moment he saw him, but it did help to be prepared. He humoured himself by slowly scanning through the file, trying to figure out what kind of talk he and the Detective might have. He seemed fairly level headed. Anyone that could deal with Sherlock had to either be insane or level headed. Or a collection of both.

He wasn’t exactly money strapped even with the separation, but he could try that. But he did seem rather on the up and up. Any strange money he was receiving could be looked into as a bribe. Wouldn’t hurt to try anyway. He had taken a vested interest in Sherlock as well. However that might be construed as either negative or positive. It was difficult to predict how he would feel about the abduction. Policeman always felt like they knew everything after awhile. A gross generalisation but who else had seen the world so bleakly as they.

Right on time the car arrived through the large door, giving him enough time to stand up his own car lights having been on for quite some time to give him light, and also in the hopes of blinding anyone immediately upon arrival. The snipers rifles all rattled slightly as they prepared for Gregory Lestrades arrival. It wasn’t his job to worry about his security after all.

“Alright, what’s this all about then?” Lestrade grumbled as he stepped out from the car immediately trying to take control of the situation. Not unusual, but there was still a ring of authority in his voice that you wouldn’t expect. Not a single sign of uncertainty in Lestrades walk or speech. His eyes immediately falling on Mycroft a small frown on his face as he registered that he recognised the man before him.

“You were at the last crime scene. What are you, Victims uncle or something? Look it was a suicide. Sorry for your loss but there’s nothing we can do for her.” Mycroft felt a tad startled by that. It was odd that a man would remember him let alone connect him with anything.

“Actually I’m here with regard to a recent acquaintance of yours. Sherlock Holmes?” he dropped the name just to see the reaction on Lestrades face, as he quickly scanned over Mycrofts face as if suddenly realising something. There was a small moment where he stepped forward closing the gap between himself and Mycroft, until they were practically toe to toe.

“Look here. You leave Sherlock the hell alone! I don’t care who you are but the lads been through enough!” Alright that was extremely odd! Especially when it came to Sherlock. Mycroft was momentarily at a loss for words. Wondering what Lestrade was playing at.

“I’m his brother. Mycroft Holmes” Mycroft managed to get out weekly refusing to give up his space staring at Lestrade down his nose, his voice holding a particularly hard snap to it that normally sent other men reeling. 

Lestrade stared at him hard frowning tightly before letting up obviously deciding that he looked like Sherlock. “ So what do you want from me?” He answered fishing out a cigarette and lighting it waiting for Mycroft to just come out and say it.

“To continue allowing Sherlock to help with cases. To allow him free run of the crime scenes and allowing him use of your laboratory if the need calls.” He frowned at the cigarette suddenly wanting one of his own, but deciding that could wait until after their meeting. 

“Can’t do it. I already broke I don’t know how much protocol with him helping with the last case. If it gets out it could damage the case alone.” Greg answered taking a long breath of his fag blowing it away from Mycroft.

“I’ll see to it that he gets the proper authority to help when it comes to court dockets. What I need is for someone to agree to work with him. You already have and seen how effective he is.”

Greg frowned slightly nodding his agreement on that point, dropping the smouldering stick and putting it out by stepping on it. “If that’s true then what’s in it for me? Face it, your brothers a bloody junky and effing rude to boot! It’s a nightmare working with him! As long as its all legal of course.”

Mycroft smirked at that, getting straight to the point then. He liked that and if the man could be bought that was even better. “Money? Name your price. I understand you’re currently separated. I’m sure it could come in handy.”

Greg frowned at that. Posh tossers were all the same. Thinking they could buy their way in with money. He was far more valuable than anything money could buy. He stared at the man wanting to break him in two. Wondering what it would take to bend the man to his will, to break him and to make him his. To make him regret ever coming to the conclusion that Gregory Lestrade could ever be bought. He wanted to see this man go as low as his brother had and more.It was a dark tangible desire. If he really wanted his brother taken care of he’d have offered something far more valuable. “I want you.” 

It was out of his mouth before he even knew he had said it. It surprised him to no end, but he managed to keep the surprise from his face, something with in his chest howling with pleasure at managing to draw out a surprised look from the Posh mans face though. “I; I beg your pardon.”

“You gone deaf have you? I said that I.Want.You. Do you want me to be even more clear? I want you on your knee’s taking it up the arse from me. Every time you’re little brother calls me an idiot I want to take it out on your hide. Every time your little brother tells me how to do my job, I want to be able to stick my prick down your tight, posh mouth and remind you that you’re nothing,remind you that this should really be your brother not you. You’re a slut and a whore, trading favours. And if you can’t do that. Then we haven’t got a deal.”

Mycroft had gone an interesting colour of white. His face almost glowing in the dark as if he had never even considered that possibility, standing there like that he looked like a statue, or one of those Weeping Angels from Doctor Who that didn’t move until you looked away. 

“Why?” Mycroft finally croaked suddenly remembering that he had to breath at some point.

“You already know why Mr.Holmes. Because every man who’s been oppressed by someone more high up than themselves has always dreamed of putting a man like yourself on their knee’s. I want to know what it’ll take to break you. To see you bleed and weep. To watch you struggle with yourself in doing what you have to versus what you want to. Do you love your brother enough to trade yourself for his happiness? Cause if you are, you’re a bigger man than I thought you were. We both know that without a case to solve he’ll be dead within a year” 

Lestrade didn’t know what was going on with himself, all he knew was that he wanted to watch this tall proud man, bend beneath his hands. His divorce, his lack of control in all aspects of his life, his need to see his wife punished for her sins, to see every single rich, stuck up bastard that had ever gotten away with it get what they deserved. And this man could be a perfect outlet for that need.

Mycroft stood motionless for a long moment blinking slowly at Lestrade trying to regain his thoughts. This is not how it was supposed to go. He was reading Lestrade easily, and this was dangerous, But it was Sherlock. He wouldn’t survive very long if he didn’t have something to calm his mind. He knew that feeling. This was a side to Lestrade he never would have envisioned. 

“Very well. I agree.” Mycroft muttered numbly staring somewhere just under his chin, but right through him. He loved Sherlock and would do anything for him. He should have left well enough alone. But he couldn’t.

“Alright then strip.”

“What?” Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to be polite, the indignation clear in his voice, the sound of several rifles being loaded along with the sudden stopping of the sound of a cellular phone keyboard being typed clearly done by the menace in Lestrades voice.

“I need to see if you’re as good as your word. No point in agreeing if I don’t know if you’ll really go through with it” Lestrade stated calmly crossing his arms. Watching the emotions crossing over Mycroft’s face. The air so tense in that one moment it became hard to breath.

“Leave us.” Mycroft said calmly into the room, the rifles being pulled back, the sound of heals clicking as Anthea started to turn away to leave, echoing through the massive chamber.

“Oh no. All of them need to stay to witness this Mr.Holmes. Or no agreement. Now strip or take me home.” Lestrades voice was hard. The heals on the concrete and other noises having stopped as if waiting for another order.

Mycroft frowned nodding for his men to all stay, his fingers shaking moved to remove his jacket, moving over to put it over the single chair in the cool room. Acutely aware of the eyes on him.

“No Poshman. Drop everything on the floor, chairs too good for the likes of your things.” The surge of power, and the rush of something dark and wild rushing through his veins was almost too addictive, watching Mycroft frown, trying to control his tongue while pushing his arm out dropping his jacket on the dusty, greasy floor. 

The way his lips drew thinly as the dust flew into the air highlighted by the half dozen cars lights shining around the area, literally putting him in the spotlight. Greg’s tall shadow falling over his figure if he moved or bent over like a demon made of shadow’s, powerful and omnipresent.

Stripping off his tie, waistcoat, shirt and undershirt on top of his jacket trying to get it right so that they too didn’t become too dirty. Before slipping out of his shoes, and socks, before finally slipping free from his trousers, seeing no reason to prolong the experience. 

His guards and Anthea had heard the deal. They would understand and if they didn’t he’d just fire them or worse. Slipping out of his boxers however was bit more difficult for him, but a sharp unyielding look from Greg quickly had him removing them. Deciding that tonight was not the night to test boundaries. Although it might be precisely the night to do so.

“Good boy. Now turn around and spread your legs and grab your ankles.” Mycroft frowned tightly at that. Not sure of what he disapproved of more. The condescending tone and name, or the idea.

He did as he was told, feeling vulnerable but trying not to show it. The sound of Greg walking over to him and examining him sent a flush over his face as he realized that he was on display to the world, Greg’s rough hand caressing his backside suddenly made him flinch nearly toppling over.

“What a pretty little slave you are. Because that’s what you have become isn’t it? Selling yourself for your brother? Regret it yet? Have you ever taken it up the arse Slut?” Mycroft was disinclined to answer, he was nobodies slave. Greg’s rough hand moved away only to be back within a few seconds later to deliver a slap so hard, that even half suspecting it, Mycroft had to let go of his ankles to brace himself, the second slap hurt far worse and the third worst of all.

“I asked you a fucking question!” The hand moving back for another hard smack.

“No I haven’t!” Mycroft growled trying desperately to stop himself from losing his temper but fighting a losing battle as yet another slap fell.

“No I haven’t what?”

“Oh for…No I haven’t sir.” Mycroft was suddenly envisioning so many different ways to make Sherlock the bane of Lestrades existence that he would wish that he had never asked for this.

“Good. Its going to be used regularly from now on. But since I don’t have supplies with me right now. We’ll have to forgo that till next time. Now get on your knee’s and suck my cock. And do it well or I’ll make you pay”

Mycroft somehow managed to gracefully fall to his knee’s shuffling around to face Greg suddenly finding himself with a face full of Greg’s crotch, the man staring down at him with a glimmer that read to all the world of the power that the man was no doubt feeling intoxicated by.

That had always been Mycroft’s problem. It had never been the fact that he had a nuisance for a brother, but his position had always made men smaller than himself want to break him, to feel power over him. And Lestrade had finally found a way to get to him after so many dozens of politicians ,gentleman and even the odd royal had failed to.

Greg pulled his cock out, showing it to Mycroft in a way that said ‘see this. It’s going down your throat now’, only to find Mycroft sneering at it. Reaching back he slapped Mycroft through the face, enough to send him to the floor. The sound of Anthea gasping in the background brought him back enough not to continue, remembering why he was there before grabbing him up by the neck he forced Mycroft to sit up, forcing the head of his hard cock between Mycrofts lips, not giving him a moment to catch his breath before gripping the back of his fair hair and ramming his cock deeply down into his mouth without notice.

Mycroft tried to gain some kind of footing, gripping Greg’s hips for balance, ignoring the world around him as Greg kept nudging the back of his throat, fighting down a gag reflex that had been threatening to rise before forcing himself to relax into it, Greg not giving him a moment finally got his cock down as far as it would go. Face Fucking Mycroft roughly. Enjoying the feel of the man in his hands. The sheer power of it all.

Mycroft’s grip tightened as he felt Greg’s zipper rubbing against his chin no doubt going to leave marks. He needed to breath, this was far too much, and just as he felt he was going to pass out, Greg pulled back stroking his cock once, twice before leaving a steak of cum all over Mycroft’s face. Feeling immensely satisfied he tucked himself away staring at Mycroft feeling extremely pleased. 

The man on his knee’s stared up at him looking decidedly green, trying to fight back the urge to be sick. He grabbed hold of Mycroft’s chin pulling him closer to his own face looking him straight in the eye. “This is just the beginning Mycroft Holmes. The next time it will be the two of us alone and I won’t be so nice to you. Are you sure you want this to continue?”

Mycroft frowned at the man, determined to regain composure, he wouldn’t show how affected he was by this, glaring at him. Croaking at him with a sore throat. “Of course. Make sure that Sherlock is happy or the deal is off.”

Greg actually laughed at that, smirking down at him before turning to make his way back to the car that Anthea had brought him in. “Time to take me home I think. See you sometime in the week then.”


	2. The cost of the H.O.U.N.D of Baskerville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft needs Greg to go and look after Sherlock during the Hound of Baskerville. It comes at a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was Beta'd by the awesome and ever helpful and completely brilliant Loki_Laufeyson.
> 
> Warning:This chapter is also dark. Probably worse so than the 1st one.

**Chapter 2.**

_I need a favour, Sherlock seems to have made a nuisance of himself.- MH._

_Our deal still stands. I let him in on cases. I keep him happy. I’m not his baby sitter. If he’s not under arrest then it’s not my problem.-GL._

_He has infiltrated a military base. I need someone to keep an eye on him. –MH_

_It will cost you. I want you without distraction for 3 days.- GL_

_I’ll make all the arrangements. Train leaves early tomorrow morning. I’ll send you further details.-MH.  
_

“Get on your knee’s” The voice wasn’t harsh or hard, but somewhat amused. Like a cat having cornered a mouse, intent on having its fun with it before dealing the final blow. 

His normal instincts to fight anyone that dared to try and impose their will on him were firmly squashed beneath the heel of his need to protect his brother (even from himself). He dropped his bag beside the door, gracefully getting to his knees without taking another step forward. This was hardly the first time that they had done this. 

He knew now that it would be easier to follow orders than to fight. He was a politician and a leader and he knew when to fight back, when to stand his ground and when to wait it out. Maybe if this had been a simple case of a few hours he might have fought Lestrade. But this was far longer. The need for self-preservation far outweighing his need to be stubborn. It would only fuel Lestrade after all.

He stayed that way for what felt like the longest of times. There on his knee’s facing Lestrade’s living room. The clothes on his skin had begun to itch as he knelt there. Anxious sweat, from being forced to remain in a kneeling position, slowly dripping down his back. Lestrade pointedly ignoring him in favour of watching a football match was a clearly a tactic to provoke Mycroft.

The joke was on him of course. Mycroft had just had to change the objective of this game. Rather than trying to win by being wilful. He would win by not allowing himself to be goaded. He would wait out what ever harsh punishment Lestrade would feel like dealing and in that he would win. As long as Lestrade didn’t figure out that he was playing this new game in his head. 

He’d knelt the entire match. His knee’s ached, his thigh muscles cramped from the weight. His lower back throbbed as he forced himself to maintain good posture even where he knelt. And he wished he could undo his tie but did not dare to move his hands from behind his back. This position had practically been beaten into him from their previous encounters. 

“Come here.” Lestrade still hadn’t bothered looking away from the TV. It was slightly disconcerting.

Doing what he was told, Mycroft moved onward slowly, not out of choice. His knees creaked, unused muscles aching. 

He learned a while ago not to come dressed in his best and not to bother with niceties like undershirts as he’d probably be spending these days naked. But, usually, he’d be undressed by now so it was unnerving. He even had spare clothes in his bag. He didn’t want another repeat of watching Lestrade cut his clothes from his body and sending him home as he was. 

“Trousers down,” Lestrade muttered, taking a long drink from the beer he had, the match now finished and the commentators soft voices breaking through the background. 

Mycroft dropped his trousers, keeping his gaze on the fabric pooling around his ankles as he waited to see what he’d be expected to do.

“Stroke yourself.” 

Frowning slightly to himself, Mycroft did as he was asked. He stared at a point in the floor as he took his cock into hand, stroking it as he was told. He didn’t like the new direction that this was taking. Greg finally removed his gaze from the TV to watch Mycroft with a curious gaze. Unwaveringly. 

“How long have we been doing this Mycroft?” Greg finally asked, sitting back in his chair and staring up at Mycroft’s face; trying to read him.

“Awhile I imagine. A few years, sir,” Mycroft answered, trying to sound disinterested. He knew right down to the second how long their arrangement had been going on but he couldn’t admit to it.

His hand moved in slow pushes and pulls, up and down his shaft, all the while trying to avoid Greg’s gaze. Mycroft hoped he wouldn’t push matters any further. 

“And how many times have we met over that time?” It seems that he would.

“A few dozen times.” 

32 times in 25 months his mind screamed at him, but remaining vague was usually safer when answering Gregory. Bailing Sherlock out for major infractions: five times. Saving Sherlock from being arrested: seven times. Letting Sherlock run with unsolved cases: thirteen times. Sherlock bombarding Lestrade with messages: 5 times. The forsaken comment about his ex-wife and the P.E. teacher at Christmas that had Mycroft grateful for his umbrella the next week being able to lean on it: once. The overdose had cost him dearly, Greg had seen to Sherlock but Mycroft still bore the scars. Thank god for John Watson. A full 13 months that could have been far, far worse than it actually was. 

“And what have we done so far in that time?” Greg finally stood up, tugging at Mycroft’s shirt as he continued to stroke himself, not having been told to stop.

His heart raced as he waited for the ground to be kicked out from under him. Something was going to give. It was like watching a horror movie and hearing the suspense music start up. He was trying to control his breathing, to stop himself shivering but he couldn’t. Greg smiled pleasantly at him as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and removing it. He’d learned not to wear a tie when meeting with Gregory. A tie and a belt were dangerous too. 

“What haven’t we done in that time?” the words were out of Mycroft’s mouth before he could stop himself.

He sounded alien to his own ears and the backhand was no surprise. 

Gregory hated back talk, his eyes said as much as he glared at the man who’d just fallen on top of the, thankfully, strong coffee table. His feet awkwardly bound with his shoes and trousers. Greg gave him a warning look rubbing the stubble on his cheek. Talking down to Greg was something ‘posh’ men like himself did and he had been warned about that already. He tried to save face, remaining where he was, stroking himself again and licking his bleeding lip.

“Anything you want to do because I’m your slave and a whore,” Mycroft amended. 

Greg grinned at that. Obviously not the answer he was looking for but enough to change the mood back to something more pleasant.

“You were actually on the right path with your first answer. What you _haven’t_ done is come. 32 visits and you’ve not come once. Not by my hand. I hadn’t noticed until the last time. Why should I? Your pleasure is not my problem. But it occurred to me that it might be something you deliberately hold back on…is it? Doesn’t matter. I plan to make you enjoy your time with me now.” Greg seemed very pleased with himself. Of course he would. 

Mycroft had been proud of his control over his body. If this had been a different circumstance, if they had met as friends, he’d have willingly let his body follow its instincts. Would have allowed himself to grow hard at sucking the man’s cock. Would have allowed his body the release it so desperately wanted from having a hard cock shoving into him, grazing his prostate. But he couldn’t, no, he wouldn’t let this affect him.

“Take off the rest of your clothes, go into the bedroom and stand in the usual spot.” Greg commanded. 

Mycroft did as he was told. Reminding himself that this is what kept Sherlock off the streets, off drugs and ultimately safe. 

He hadn’t been waiting long when he felt Greg press against his back, pressing his chin to the crook of his neck. Mycroft he resolutely stared forward, hands loose at his sides even though he wanted to clench them into fists and his chin raised ever so slightly, defiantly. So much for trying to get through this quietly.

A hand snaked over his shoulder, pressing two fingers between his lips which he readily sucked. He did not want to suffer through another dry fuck but he couldn’t help but wince slightly at the feel of fingers against his newly broken lips. The other hand moved down to stroke his cock. 

Greg quickly removed his fingers to breach him gently, moving in and out in an uneven rhythm. He deliberately found Mycroft’s prostate but Mycroft gritted his teeth, refusing to let his body give in. Lestrade would find a new game if he just gave him what he wanted anyway. It was getting too much too quickly though. He may actually lose this before the game had begun. It was the first time Greg had touched him deliberately like this, with such gentleness, without the pain of being freshly whipped or used as a punching bag.

The fingers roughly removed themselves without warning, Greg stepping way to get something while Mycroft took that moment to collect himself. He drew in a shuddering breath as the heat of the fingers around and in him seemed to remain.

The sound of chains brought Mycroft back to himself. Soon after their arrangement had started Greg had ordered him to install chains for himself, he shouldn’t have been surprised of course. The chains lowering from the ceiling above him was as regular as clockwork. It just felt like an abrupt turn around. 

The cuffs around his wrists, followed by the chains, were a normal progression too. The gentle tug of the chains as gravity pulled him, the feeling of just being shy of comfort, was expected now. Being completely open for Greg’s pleasure was something he’d never get used to though.

He understood the bodies reaction to stimuli, just like he understood most things, he understood that sex and torture (what else could he call what he was going through? He was adventurous in the bedroom but he didn’t think he could ever trust someone to chain him like this by his own free will) were supposed to be different things on two separate ends of the scale, but in the end it was just various degrees of stimuli. 

At least that was what he was trying to tell himself. The first gentle slap of a paddle against his backside wasn’t what he was expecting nor the build-up to more. Greg always liked to start hard and finish worse. The gentle tingling sensation that was being worked over his backside was fairly pleasant compared to what he had suffered at Greg’s hands before. It was making him nervous again. The paddle didn’t stop but it didn’t hurt either, and it continued until his lower back and backside were a bundle of over sensitive nerve endings.

Greg’s rough hands began working over his backside, rubbing over his sensitive skin, massaging him, moving up and down his back. Mycroft’s mind was screaming at him to stay alert, his body however was beginning to relax into it. Every time he’d catch himself on the brink of forgetting with whom he was with, he’d snap out of it only to find Greg behind him doing something else, running a tongue over heated flesh, rubbing his the stubble on his chin right behind his ear.

He felt the warmth behind him leave only to return in a few seconds. Wet and slick fingers pressed into his entrance, spreading and preparing him in a way that he had never felt from Greg before. He was so used to being taken roughly for Greg’s pleasure, never his own. 

The fingers left and were soon followed by a gentle, teasing cock sinking into him slowly. So slowly. Mycroft’s own cock was now hard against his belly, giving him no chance to escape the pressure as he had nothing to rub against (but then again he didn’t want to come). His pleasure wasn’t something he wanted to give Greg.

A thumb was gently rubbing circles into his hip as Greg moved in and out of him, grazing his prostate. A hand at the bottom of his abdomen made the intense coiling feeling in the pit of his stomach as much a curse as much as a blessing. 

Mycroft didn’t know whether to swear or to beg. He tried to focus on the added pressure on his wrists, on the pain around them, on his fingers going numb but then there was the glorious stretch of Greg’s cock slowly taking him, of that hand on his belly slowly wrapping around his cock and it was too good to ignore. He was panting, but somewhere within him he could feel a knawing disappointment.

He tried to remind himself that he had made a deal with Gregory. He had promised to give him what he wanted in return for his brother’s happiness, and Sherlock had never in his life been happier than he was now. He was a man of his word. All a man was worth was his word. If Gregory wanted his pleasure, he could have it. He knew he was bargaining with himself, trying to make what was about to happen something he could deal with. 

He felt himself on the very edge of oblivion, that moment in which this would change. Mycroft had always been able to separate himself from these moments with Greg but now it would be different, there would be nothing that Greg didn’t know about him. 

The pressure increased. He could feel Gregory moving inside him and he was just _there_.

But then Greg stopped. 

Mycroft wanted to scream or swing himself on his chains to keep the momentum going. Something. _Anything_. Instead he let out a shuddering breath at the hand on his cock squeezing at the base. Greg’s lips grazed against his ear, holding Mycroft against him.

“Beg for it, Mycroft.” Greg whispered into his ear, giving a long stroke to remind him of what he wanted, the cock inside him not moving an inch. Any idea of pleasure went out the window with those four words. He wanted to beg, but something stopped him, something telling him that this was an entirely different game, and he didn’t want to give into Greg so quickly. 

He remained silent, waiting for the rough yank that would bring pain. Only nothing happened of the sort. Greg began to thrust again. He pumped into Mycroft until he let out a grunt, filling Mycroft with his come. After pulling out, he moved around to view Mycroft’s cock, giving him another opportunity to beg, and when that wasn’t forthcoming he only smirked and took a step closer. Closer, until their bodies were very nearly flush and Mycroft had to force himself to stand still rather than rut against Greg.

“We have three days. You aren’t coming until you beg. Don’t forget I have all sorts of things at my disposal. Whips, canes, belts, vibrators, anal beads, cock rings, ginger. You remember the ginger, I imagine? I even have sounding equipment. You’re either going to beg me to let you come or beg me to stop, Mycroft. It’ll be your choice. Just because I’m feeling nice.”

Mycroft swallowed, refusing to meet Greg’s eye for fear he might break. This wasn’t weak, he told himself, he was keeping his side of the bargain, he was here! Greg frowned seeing that Mycroft wasn’t near breaking point yet. He walked away and slipped into his bed, letting out a satisfied sigh. 

“If you’d been a good boy you could have slept at the foot of the bed.”

Mycroft didn’t answer as the light was turned off, leaving him in darkness. 

He forced himself to remember that this was for Sherlock.


End file.
